And Blood-black Nothingness Began to Spin
by PuffleHuff
Summary: "Only he and the red-headed death omen hear the voices. For all their sensitivities, the pack doesn't know what their mortal counterparts do about the void. 'The Void,' it corrects, an imperceptible voice dripping with self-aggrandizement." Post-S3. T for language, depression, drug use, implied sexuality.
1. Blood-black Nothingness

**Title:** And blood-black nothingness began to spin  
 **Rating:** Teen for language, depression, drug use, implied sexuality  
 **Warnings:** Description of psychological torment; physical and psychological unwellness; character death  
 **Spoilers:** Through season three, and some of season four. I've muddied the timelines of three and four, and diverge from canon following season three part two. Mention of cannon character death. Eventually, use of Stiles's real name.  
 **Title Credit:** A line from the film _Blade Runner 2049,_ which is also a quotation from Vladimir Nabokov's novel _Pale Fire_.  
 **Author's Note:** More than anything, this is a personal work in progress. Updates are likely to be erratic and/or "invisible" (for example, subtle changes within already published sections). As much as I love sharing and reading fanfiction, and while I appreciate any and all feedback, please note that this work is not necessarily written/designed for an audience. I am utilizing my favorite vague and dark style, although this is likely to shift into a more conventional narrative in later sections.  
This piece is somewhat inspired by a Stiles-Lydia-Derek fic I read a while ago, which I have not been able to track down again [if that author ever reads this, thank you for your work]; somewhat inspired by my struggles with migraines and autoimmune disease; and heavily inspired by the magnificent score to the film _Blade Runner 2049_ [if I could make a sound a title, I so, so, so would have]. You may absolutely read Stydia, Dydia, Sterek, and what I suppose you could call Stydek into this first section, and will probably encounter each of these pairings and groupings in future sections.  
Thank you for reading. - The PuffleHuff  
 **Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of the creators of Teen Wolf. Any original characters, settings and plots are the property of PuffleHuff. PuffleHuff is in no way associated with the TV show Teen Wolf or MTV, and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.**

* * *

When he wakes up in a cold panic it isn't to the sound of his own voice, piercing the night and bringing the sheriff running. No. These days, these nights, these moments are silent to the world now. Only he hears the voices.

Only he and the red-headed death omen.

For all their sensitivities, the pack doesn't know what their mortal counterparts know. What he has been hearing in the dark. Seeing in the dark. Resisting.

The void.

"The Void," it corrects, an imperceptible voice dripping with self-aggrandizement.

He wrestles the bed sheets tangling his legs. Pulls the damp cotton over his head. Wraps his body up the way he can't wrap up his mind.

"We are waiting," it calls. Metallic fangs gnashing in the dark.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

The sun comes up. The days progress. The shadow beneath his eyes grows deeper as he grows quieter.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

Scott notices the change in volume, and finally picks up on darkened circles around his best friend's eyes. When he lays a gentle hand on Stiles's shoulder to ask how he can help, it is quickly brushed away. But not before the sting of pain rushes up his arm.

"Insomnia. Migraines," Stiles says, focus shifting everywhere but to Scott's face. "I'll be fine after finals."

He knows he isn't convincing, but his alpha has other things to worry about. Stiles won't call the hero off the battlefield for this.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

Her hair, spun fire, is uncharacteristically oily and unkempt. A hazy halo.

He can almost smile at that thought.

She has always been an angel to him.

An angel, with perfect features contorted in frustration. Her hands sliding from his cheeks to his chest as she finally remembers to breathe again.

"He's just toying with me," she sighs. Then gasps, hazel eyes widening as she struggles with the air working back into her lungs.

"It won't let anyone else play the game," he responds, knowingly. In a way, he is relieved.

He may not be able to silence the voices for her, but he can protect her.

"The void…" she says.

Frustration becomes despair. Her arms snake around him.

They hold each other, braced. Loving. Fearing.

The symphony of the empty dark rises to a crescendo of madness.

And she can feel it. Crawling beneath his skin.

He can feel it, too. Feel the cry, the scream – the call – building in her chest.

"The Void," he agrees.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

He stops going to school.

At first the sheriff doesn't notice. But when he does, another barrage of examinations and conversations with doctors occurs.

Sleeping pills. Meditation. Recommendations for bi-weekly counseling.

He takes the pills, but is never quite sure if he's managed to sleep.

He tries meditation with Lydia, once. For a few moments, there is calm. Then the wave of oblivion washes over him.

He sank through the levels of Hell. How many were there supposed to be? Seven?

He lost track.

When the angel – his beautiful angel, the angel of death – manages to rouse him, his ears ring with her scream for days.

And counseling. Who else could he possibly share his nightmares with and stay out of Eichen House now?

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

When the dark wolf returns to town, the stench of desperation nearly sends him running.

It doesn't take long for the banshee to arrive on his doorstep.

"You reek," he mutters, slowly backing away.

When she doesn't pursue him, doesn't offer any explanation, he comes forward again.

Curiosity kills wolves.

"It's Stiles, isn't it?"

She just nods. A pretty shell, a shiny wrapper around a well of death.

He flinches when he takes her hand, surprised by the waves of pain flowing into him. Almost nauseous. But it passes quickly. The scent dissipates.

The dark wolf smells only soap and himself on her skin.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

"We are waiting," it croons, its mouth an evil gash in a featureless face.

The empty white room is dark now. The pieces have returned to the board.

"You'll have to keep waiting," he responds. Venom.

His hand darts out to wipe away the pieces, white and black, but never reach the game.

His arm is caught up by a dozen hands. The voices shriek all around him.

"Ah ah ah," it scolds, slipping into the shadows.

The arms, the voices, the void engulfs him.

He wills himself awake. Searching for his blankets. Groping for the light switch.

They bundle him up, bowl him over, and send him skidding across the inky blackness.

When he falls at its feet it has become two.

He stares up at himself. And he stares up at Her.

"Allison," he cries.

She grins a silver smile and her mouth runs with blood.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

"Lydia, I'm sorry," he murmurs. His knees are weak while tears stain her cheeks.

"It wasn't you," she insists, lips pursed. The red gold main shakes.

"But it was."

"It wasn't you."

She can't stop crying. That's why he can't accept it.

For once, the voices are blissfully quiet, and she thanks the powers that be for that blessing. If she could hear her dead friend's voice, she knows she never would be able to forgive him.

She would never be able to help him.

Little though she can.

"It wasn't you," she insists. Until her eyes dry. Until the pleading goes out of his posture.

"I'm still sorry," he sobs.

He collapses into her. Lets go of trying to stay in control.

He feels her arms around him. Feels her body. Feels her breath.

His angel. For once, he almost feels heaven.

He'll take purgatory, though.

He'll take any quiet he can get.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

She has to insist. She practically drags him there herself before he'll go see the former alpha.

The dark wolf.

He doesn't bother knocking. Just stumbles in. The expression of revulsion on the dark wolf's face is like vindication.

"Hell," the man spits. "Stiles… How can no one know?"

He feels his shoulders shrug, but his feet are still carrying him forward. Desperation.

The darkness. The psychological hell. The Void has laid him so low.

The man doesn't resist when the boy takes his arm in his hands.

It's only moments before his arm is black with pain and his body is on fire. Then he has to fight him off.

It hurts, too, to watch the relief shift back into agony once he's extricated himself.

But there are boundaries. There have to be lines. He won't be good to anyone dead.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

"A thousand…" the boy mutters in his sleep.

They think it's sleep, but they also know they are usually wrong.

He's always on the edge of twilight. In limbo. On the precipice of hell.

"A thousand years," he repeats.

His eyes stay closed. His body, impossibly still.

Hazel and green eyes meet in the half-light. The dark wolf takes the boy's hand. The black immediately creeps up his arm.

A shaken head. A turn.

"Thousand years."

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidAThousandYearsTheVoidTheVoid

There are small improvements.

He starts going to classes again. Not all of them. Not all the time. But he goes.

For a while, Scott pesters him. Apologizing. Making excuses.

They're good ones, but it's clear that the pack has become a more pressing obligation than human time.

When he finally, begrudgingly, accepts that Stiles doesn't need him, it's a relief all around.

A small flicker of light.

A lessening of weight.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

When they're all there, it's best. Sometimes.

When all three of them are together, he almost touches normal again.

He doesn't like relying on them. Doesn't like seeing the black that snakes up the dark wolf's arm when he takes the angel's hand.

He tries to hide it, even knowing that she can hear the voices, too. Even as calm radiates from the wolf's human hands.

He wants to be strong enough on his own.

It's a while before he realizes none of them are.


	2. Began to Spin

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

He doesn't know where the idea comes from. Surely not from the Void. It would never suggest a method of relief.

But he finds himself rummaging through the coach's desk.

Tense. Alert to sound. Anxious not only because of the gnawing inside him, but also afraid to be caught.

His fingers brush cylindrical plastic and caution is thrown out. He scrambles for the little orange bottle.

Could almost sing when the tablets rattle inside.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

With the stolen painkillers dulling his senses, the Void is nearly bearable.

Or, at least, he doesn't care that he's drowning in hell.

He sinks into warm darkness and the voices dim to a background roar.

This way, he doesn't pull anyone else under.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

"We are waiting," it says. It wears his face again. It actually looks healthier than he does.

He studies the board. The pieces become beetles, scampering in every direction.

The others, the legion of voices, reach out of the darkness to steal them away.

He looks back to his own cracked face. The sarcastic smile and the dead eyes.

It rises from its seat and beckons its living doppelgänger on.

He has no will to resist anymore. He follows.

The space is bright white only around their repeating figures, moving through the Void. It is also stained an array of reds.

It leads him through the halls of the high school. Leads him past every body they've found. Every body that's fallen lifeless because of him. Because of the pack's inability to avert death.

"Even with a banshee, you've let so many die," it chides. "Children, playing at heroes."

Another time, in another life, it would have turned his stomach. It would have hurt his pride. But not anymore. Not like this.

He agrees with the Void.

It leads him through the forest. To the Hale house. Sets it on fire.

Over and over.

The voices hiss and cry and scream. The voices snarl.

It leads him through a mirror town, a mirror home.

And lets the hands tear him apart. Lets them claw him to shreds. Lets him drown.

Over and over.

It feeds on his agony, and he lets it.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

Partly, he is ashamed.

He doesn't want to tell her why he can't meet her eye. Why he won't take her hand anymore. Why he has stopped carrying his phone.

Partly, he still wants to protect her.

But she isn't any safer without him than she is with.

At least this way she isn't witness to his decline anymore. He tells himself it's better, somehow.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

She isn't having any of it.

She let him hide for a while. Spent her evenings with the dark wolf. Regained some sense of self. Some composure.

The man who is a wolf – and the wolf a man – hasn't underestimated her in a long time. He learned quickly that appearances were just that. His pale blue eyes can see her for what she is.

Death omen. Banshee.

He can see her, hear her, without fearing her.

The wolf can bear her pain, and she recovers some of her humanness again. Can let the boy hide for a while.

But she sees him. Sees the pale, bruised skin. Sees the lack of tension in his body. Sees no lack of despair.

Can hear the low roar of the void emanating from him.

She lets him hide for a little while, but eventually the pull draws her back to him. Guilt.

They've always been in this together.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

His face isn't his face. His expression is Void.

His breath is even but shallow.

If she weren't absolutely certain, she would say it wasn't him. For a moment, she isn't.

But a spark grows in his eyes when he finally registers her there.

"Lydiaaa," he draws out the last syllable of her name. She's even less certain than before.

To him, she is shining. Clean and pure again. An angel.

He wonders if he's hallucinating.

When he stands to approach her, the empty bottle falls from his lap.

He doesn't notice. She does.

She sees the gaunt skin around his eyes. Stoops to read the label.

"This explains a lot."

She shakes the flaming halo, and his dream becomes a nightmare again.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

Withdrawal is not pretty for any of them.

For a while, there's no pain for the wolf to take. The scent is sickness and submission.

When the pain returns, he's a mix of anger and shame.

Angry, angry, that he's been found out. That they insist never to leave him alone.

Angry that the dull ache has become a festering hole inside him once more.

Shame, too. That there are witnesses to his madness.

Shame that he isn't stronger. That he never really overcame it on his own at all.

His expression alternates. Pleading. Honey-gold eyes begging for forgiveness. Begging for relief.

And when the wolf takes his hand, his arm, his shoulder, a line breaks inside.

Hatred and disgust.

"None of us deserve to live," he spits, wrenching himself free only to be pinned again.

The dark wolf can hear the voices in that moment.

The angel cries. The boy cries.

The wolf holds back. Holds them all together.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

Blood-black spews from his mouth. The Void works to pull it back in.

Wrapped in the sweat drenched blankets, he stumbles around the bodies.

Sleeping bodies. Dead bodies.

He has seen the way the blue flashes across the wolf's face.

He hears her sobs through the walls.

He listens without understanding, without caring, as the Void taunts, and chides, and snarls.

He carries the basin of inky bile to the bathroom. His head spins as it drains away.

"We are waiting, we are waiting. It is time," it calls, excited and impatient.

He's thinking clearly, though each notion comes excruciating to the fore of his mind.

"Yes," he responds, not knowing he has spoken. "I'm dying…"

And it feels like the truth as he turns. Sways. Slides to the floor.

The board is set. The pieces do not scurry anymore. The voices whisper instead of scream.

Each square with its piece, like the memory of heredity. Cells.

Hot and cold as the game progresses. Slow. Shuddering.

He knows his eyes are closed, but he sees himself. Sees the Void in his shape. In the shape of hunters and daughters and foxes and wolves.

He watches the expressions and listens to the whispers.

The squares fill up and a warmth chases the cold out. Blood flows out as the Void splits again.

Dark cracks begin to glow with light.

His mother's face, full of rage and confusion. He can feel the last heartbeat.

It has taken him a thousand years, but salvation has finally come. The game is done.

The jaws without a face crack and split, fall to dust in a flash of unbearable light.

The angel of death. A halo of fire. The wolf who swallowed the moon.

The last of black nothingness seeps from the hollow of his chest.


	3. Cells Interlinked Within Cells

**A/N:** This section was written to the piece "Memories of Green," by Vangelis, from the Blade Runner (1982) soundtrack, if you are interested in the "mood music." This section also uses Stiles's Polish real name. There is a good pronunciation video for it on youtube if you google it. I'm not sure how FF will handle the L with slash, but that is how it would traditionally be spelled. Thank you for reading.

* * *

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

The scream that wakes her never makes it to her throat. Lydia is on her feet in an instant, searching the space, but finding only the dark wolf curled in on himself at the foot of the bed.

She finds the body slumped against a door frame. Cold to the touch. Eyes shut.

She knows he is too still. Sees that his chest doesn't rise or fall, or shudder. Her fingers around his throat find no thread of life.

"Derek," she shouts, and the wolf immediately wakes. Bounds through the grey light with hackles raised.

She pulls the boy all the way to the floor, laying him out flat. Preparing.

"He isn't breathing," she rasps, kneeling beside him. Even in panic, she recalls the steps. Aligns her palms over his chest. Anticipates the cracking and presses hard. The sound of his ribs giving way beneath her still startles.

There is no time to hesitate, to draw comparisons, to wonder. Her lips cover his as she forces him to share her air.

The wolf is a man again. Firmly pushes her arms away to take up the job of the boy's heart.

"Breathe," he orders. Is it for her or the boy?

She hovers over the pale face. Counts his freckles with her breaths, eyes swimming.

TheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoidTheVoid

A part of his human memory knows that light comprises all color. Here, though, in this new place, he is surprised when the bright white light recedes into deep violets, bathing him in warmth. Transforming him.

He remembers shattering, as the Void collapsed. When he recalls, the moment plays over and over in an instant, and the once horrendous pain is an ache in his center.

The shifting light pulls him back together. Not only is he whole, he is transformed. Full. The gaunt tension goes. He is more than before.

He also remembers his anchors. He saw their faces in the moment of death.

This moment, too, replays.

She flashes a vibrant gold. She is illuminated. A saint. A Madonna.

A holy angel, a dark wolf at her feet. He swallows the moon upon which she stands.

And then they're gone again.

There are others in the light. Eyes and faces. Some smile, real, loving smiles. Some shift past, expressionless, silent. Others are like prisms, taking in the already impossible color and reflecting back an even stronger light. Their hands replace all the pieces. Scrub out the dark blood on his soul.

Cells, interlinked. His body is light, and whole. Interlinked.

The ache in his center grows like hunger would grow if he had a body anymore. It feels incongruous to feel such a thing in a place as infinite and opposite of what he's lived these last weeks.

What were once his hands slide over what was once his chest. Searching for cracks he knows he won't find.

"Mieczysław," a voice calls. "Stiles." The sound is familiar.

Equally whole and equally beautiful, Allison appears before him. Draped in warm golden light.

"Stiles, it isn't time," she says. The words fly out of her mouth on glimmering wings. Impossibly still yet constantly shifting, her eyes pierce him as he struggles to comprehend.

"Stiles, you are whole," she says. "Stiles, you are forgiven."

The warm violet light begins to lighten to a cool white once more.

"Stiles, it isn't time."

Her hands rest against him like a crown.

"Why do you keep using that name?" his thoughts find a voice. Her smile is coral and pink and blue, like the sun setting against a starry sky.

"Stiles, they are waiting," the words flutter towards him.

She disappears into the light, searing white. The ache in his chest.

He is the light.

TheLightTheLightTheLightTheLightTheLight

"Stiles," the wolf growls, eyes a fierce blue.

"Stiles," the banshee whispers between breaths. Dark specks begin to dance in her vision. "I can't keep this up much longer."

"Stiles," the wolf turns the full force of his roar on the boy beneath him. The body shutters and is still. "Call him," he tells her.

She forces a last breath between his lips, hesitantly pulls away. She breathes for herself, once, twice.

She feels the scream still twisting inside her, pulls his name up into her throat.

"Stiles," she says it, tastes it. Her throat aches.

"Stiles!" The name explodes from her, straining, loud, tasting of blood. The sound sends the wolf scrambling back. Dust drifts from the lintels.

She finds herself standing over him, looking down.

The body twitches, shutters, rattles against the floor.

"Mieczysław?" she rasps, not daring to hope. Her tears fall against his broken ribs.

The wolf is beside her, tail curled around her ankles. Every hair trembling.

The boy's eyes open.

TheLightTheLightTheLightTheLightTheLight

"Eighteen-year-old male presented as cardiac arrest. Probable cracked ribs as result of administration of CPR. ROSC at approximately 0500 hours. Paramedics on scene at 0509. Epinephrine pushed on three minute cycles. Oxygen administered. Backboard used, although no initial sign of spinal – "

"Mieczysław."

"Mischief-what?"

"M-I-E-C-Z-"

"Z?"

"Stiles. Just write down 'Stiles.' S-T-I-L-E-S. Stilinski."

"Stilinski? The sheriff's kid?"

"Yeah. The sheriff's kid…"

"X-ray confirmation of rib damage required. Pulse remains – "


	4. Interlinked Within Cells

**A/N:** Updates will be less frequent from here. I'm in my final semester of undergrad and working and internship, so my focus has to shift back to school and research, unfortunately. Thank you for continuing to read on.

* * *

TheLightTheLightTheLightTheLightTheLight

Animals are generally frowned upon in the hospital, but then again, so are Hales these days. When Melissa McCall assigns herself to Stiles's ward, however, people pretend not to notice the large black "dog" sleeping in the corner of his room.

A steady stream of teenagers and an unusual assortment of adults filter in and out over the next 48 hours. The sheriff shoos most of them away after only a few minutes, but the ethereal girl with the mane of strawberry blonde curls remains a permanent fixture, even after the sheriff finally heads back to the station.

It's not the first time he's died. It is the first time so many people have known about it.

TheLightTheLightTheLightTheLightTheLight

Once he's discharged, Scott follows Stiles home from school every day. He finds a way to make contact and pull away the residual pain from having life forced back into his body.

Stiles pretends he doesn't know what his best friend is doing until the day Scott won't let go of him. It hurts his bandaged ribs when he twists away, and his lungs when he shouts. But Scott gets the picture.

He starts sending the rest of the pack home with him on a rotating basis.

Malia actually resorts to prodding his sides until Stiles lets her hold his hand.

All of them report the scent of Derek Hale seeping from the shadows when Stiles opens the door each afternoon.

TheLightTheDarkTheLightTheDarkTheLight

The dark wolf siphons away his ache each night as sleep comes on. Stiles still doesn't like the feeling of being so reliant on others, but the fading sound of Allison's words still resonates in his bruised chest.

"It isn't time."

Despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary they've amassed in the last few years, it seems there may yet be an overarching design to the universe.

Just because he wishes it were different, doesn't mean he isn't grateful.

The sheriff doesn't say anything, but Lydia's mother starts to show up around the sheriff's station, and even at the house, from time to time. This development sends her daughter home more often than he'd prefer, but it also keeps the pack from getting too suspicious. Everyone has seen the way time has drawn the banshee and the boy together.

Only the dark wolf knows how tightly bound they've become.

The three of them, interlinked.

"They are waiting," Allison had said.

He knows that Scott would have been broken by his death. He can imagine Malia grieving, in her way. The tears on Kira's cheek. Liam fighting his emotions, while Mason would openly have wept.

He knows how selfish his desire to free himself of the pain was. To free himself of his debt to others, to free himself of grief and guilt. By perpetuating the cycle of shame, he might have destroyed his father as well as himself. And that knowledge, too, is a weight.

" _They_ are waiting."

By giving in to the Void, by accepting his fallibility and mortality, by seeking the path of least resistance, he had also nearly destroyed those who knew him closest. The two other living souls who had fought and cared for and carried him.

He can feel the wolf's worn palm against his inner arm. He knows that his blood and biology can betray his emotions.

The wolf knows his guilt, and stays anyway.

TheLightTheDarkTheLightTheDarkTheLight

He still has nightmares. He sputters awake with the certainty that an empty black void is waiting for him in the shadows.

But the other voices are gone. The gnawing, nagging, buffeting voices have been silenced, and it's only his own self-doubt that calls to him in the night.

He also dreams.

Rainbows of light dance across his vision and wreath him in protective warmth. Visions of angels and saints flash in the corners of his unconscious mind.

When he faces the lingering memory of The Void, he isn't alone anymore.

TheLightTheDarkTheLightTheDarkTheLight

He tells Scott first. He doesn't know how the alpha will take it, considering the attachment he has developed with the kitsune. But he thinks it will be easier to tell Scott than it will be to tell Lydia.

"She was there, Scott," he says, the afternoon he invites the alpha home with him. "She was… lit up. Like an angel."

He watches the way the emotion plays on his face. Makes sure the information settles.

"She forgave me."

He sees the tears begin to well, but they never overflow. Scott nods.

"It was never really your fault," the alpha offers. A smile creases his face.

The hand on his arm relieves some of the ache in his chest, but there is another layer of relief, too. Something outside of physical discomfort, something that has been hanging around him for months, begins to dissipate.

TheLightTheDarkTheLightTheDarkTheLight

The dark wolf is uncharacteristically absent when he tells Lydia. He's been waiting for a moment alone, but begins to regret that line of thinking when he tries to get the words out.

"I saw Allison," he begins. He tries to envision Scott's smiling face in his mind's eye, but the tears are coming on too quickly. He sees the panic beginning to build inside her, feels her fingers grasp his tighter.

"She forgave me."

It seems like that fog of guilt should disappear, but the tears on her face mirror his own. Fuel his emotions.

"I knew she did," she whispers. "I told you it wasn't your fault." She meets his eyes, and he chokes on a sob.

"She was so beautiful, Lydia," he says. "And she sent me back to you."

The banshee smiles. The thrum of panic goes out of her. She laughs through her tears, and silently thanks her departed friend.

She kisses his cheeks, and he wipes away the salty stream.

TheLightTheDarkTheLightTheDarkTheLight

When the next threat finally shows itself, he's ready to serve his pack, but less enthusiastic about their mission to face down evil and protect Beacon Hills.

He knows, first hand, the inherent and inevitable danger in their situation, and is determined that they all survive. That they continue living. That they remain able to protect.


End file.
